


Alternate Histories

by SylverLining



Category: Gargoyles (TV)
Genre: AU, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-31
Updated: 2014-01-31
Packaged: 2018-01-10 15:31:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1161462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SylverLining/pseuds/SylverLining
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of AUs, where individual members of the Trio were left behind after the Wyvern massacre, in Demona's place. Mostly interactions with Macbeth, with whom each has a very different relationship and dynamic. In each timeline, one thing remains the same: he'll be the one to give them their name.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fuath

"It’s not that I’m getting  _tired_  of taking my revenge on the humans, I never get tired of that. It’s just that it never ends. There’s so many of them. Millions. And they keep multiplying, and growing their cities, and making medical advances so their populations just keep increasing - and it’s like, come on. I’m just one gargoyle. Brilliant, yeah, but still. Sometimes it just seems kind of insurmountable. No matter how many I kill, they’re never going to hurt like they made me hurt. They can wipe out an entire clan in a day, and in all these centuries, I haven’t even made so much as a dent!”

"And nobody else is really in it for the long haul. Nobody else really gets it, anyway. Oh sure, I pick up survivors from other clan massacres, and they’re angry at first, but it never lasts. They get tired. Or they die. And even normal gargoyle lives are too short! I always thought humans had pathetically short lives, but now it’s like… wow. Even we… we’re…"

A frustrated sigh.

"Come on. Say something."

"And what would ye have me say? ‘Thank you, gracious landlord, for allowing me to rot in this cell for the past century and a half, with nothing to keep me from going quietly mad?’"

"Ugh, not this again. Fine, you want me to just kill you?"

"Go right ahead. The world would be rid of yer blight as well, and so much the better."

"Oh, now that’s just mean."

"You’re calling me names now? This, from the demon crawled up from Hell, the storied scourge of humanity?"

"Please, you’re making me blush."

"I’ve got a name for ye, monster.  ** _Fuath_**. Means ‘Hate,’ in our mother tongue of old, that ye’ve no doubt forgotten. Also the name of a skulking, shadowy little dungeon-dwelling beastie, that snares innocents from the dark corners, lays clever traps, and runs at the bright fingers of sunlight. And hates. Oh, how he hates.”

"Hmm. Fuath. Fuu-aath."

"Good Lord, ye  _have_  forgotten. Yer accent is atrocious.”

"You know, I kind of like it. And you thought of that, just for me? I’ll take it as a compliment."

"Then I must’ve said it wrong."

"Well, I better get going. Thanks for the name, Macbeth. See, I still remember yours too! Really, thanks. These little chats remind me of why I keep you around."

"You mean aside from the fact that our lives are bound? Talk of killing me all you like, you’d be dead the instant you struck the blow."

"And some nights, doesn’t that sound sweet? Well, I’ll see you around. Next century or so."


	2. All There Is

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Broadway's much less vengeful and motivated than Lexington. And sadder. Needs a hobby. Macbeth will help him find one.

"It's always me coming to visit here, have ye noticed that? When's the last time ye left these walls, eh?"

Macbeth's forcedly light tone didn't get a reply, and as the quiet stretched, his eyebrows knit together. He was used to being the one to do most of the talking, but he usually wasn't met with outright silence.

"Seems a good night for a glide. Steady winds. Ye know, some people would kill and die for that, free flight. And here ye haven't stretched yer wings in... well, not quite some time."

His gargoyle counterpart slumped down a little further, leaning on the castle battlements and staring silently at the stone statues above them. Their wings hadn't moved in centuries either.

"Ye've grown thin, my friend." Now he couldn't keep the concern out of his voice. "Not a good look for ye."

No reply.

"Well, all right. I won't trouble ye any longer." Shaking his head and frowning, he turned to go, but stopped at the sound of a soft voice behind him.

"This is all there is, isn't it?"

"And what does that mean?"

"This." One claw swept through the air, indicating the silent air and looming statues. He stood between the beaked one and the small one as he did every night, though from here he could see them all. "Me, sitting here waiting. Them, stone. Forever."

"Only until the castle rises above the clouds."

"That might as well be forever. It's impossible."

"Once I would have said that living for centuries was impossible, particularly for a human. Impossible things have come to pass before."

No reply. Just the rustle of leathery wings wrapping a little tighter around shoulders.  
  
"In any case, surely there must be something to occupy your mind in the meantime."

A shrug.

"The castle still has a fine library. Last I looked, everything was intact. I'm sure there's enough to last a century or two."

A low mumble, more of a sigh than anything.

"What was that?"

"I can't read."

"I... ah." Macbeth ran a hand over his face, cursing himself. Literacy had been uncommon enough among humans in the time in which they were born, let alone in gargoyles. But it had been such a very long time, he'd just assumed...

"And what's so great about reading anyway? Just words on a page. It's not real. It doesn't matter. What matters is that they'll never wake up, and I'm alone."

"Glad to hear ye think so highly of my company."

"I didn't mean that."

"I know, I know. Anyway, you'd be surprised. Just words on a page, true, but words come from real things. You've been cooped up in this castle for much too long. There's a bigger world out there. But since you're not likely to get out and see it, reading about it's the next best thing."

Nothing, but it was clear from the furrow of the horned brow that he was at least considering the idea.

Macbeth shrugged. "Take my advice or don't. But you of all people should know that just because ye cannot see or touch or hear something... or someone... doesn't mean they're not real."

"I... maybe you're right." A long sigh, but instead of drooping further, the wings folded over the wide shoulders seemed to perk up a little. "But still. Even if I wanted to read, I don't know how."

"Bah, you'll have to come up with a better excuse than that. I'll read 'em to you. Even teach you, if you decide you want to learn."

"You'd do that?"

"It'll be something for me to do as well. You think you're the only one who's been bored out of his skull for the past six- or seven hundred years?"

"Huh. Well... all right. I'll give it a try."

"Good! Now come on. They'll still be here when ye get back. Do ye know King Arthur?"

"No. Is he a friend of yours?"

"In a manner of speaking. How about I scrape together some stew while we're at it?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear I didn't mean that "needs a hobby, Macbeth will help him find one" bit as an innuendo. But now that I think about it...


End file.
